killed and half a dozen wounded; or how they can "mow
down the enemy at every shot" for a long time, and yet not kill over a
dozen or so of them. Every thing that is done now-a-days is a complete
"rout;" all the enemy's camp equipage, guns, ammunition, etc., are
taken. Will somebody wiser than I am please explain?

THE MODERN TROUBADOUR.

A Camp Song.

Gaily the bully boy smoked his cigar,
As he was hastening off for the war;
Singing--"To Secesh land, thither I go:
Rebuels! rebuels! fight all you know!"

'Lize for the bully boy gave nary weep,
Knowing full well he'd his promise keep,
And make her his little wife; so this was her song--
"Bully boy! bully boy! come right along!"

In Camp, Near Tennessee Line, _October 7, 1862_.

At five o'clock this morning struck tents at camp, a few miles this
side of Bowling Green, and were on the march for "any place where
ordered." I am thus indefinite, because the publication of the
"ultimate destination" is contraband news. Yesterday we were encamped
in a wildly picturesque part of Kentucky--_intensely_ rocky--abounding
in caverns and subterranean streams; to-day we marched through what
has been a delightful country, beautifully rolling land, and
highly-cultivated farms; but now, what a sad picture is presented!
Scarce a fence standing; no evidences of industry; all is desolation,
and the demon of devastation seems to have stalked through the entire
State with unchecked speed--houses burned, roads neglected, farms
destroyed, in fact, nothing but desolation staring you in the face,
turn which way you will.

Early this morning the road was very dusty, but by nine o'clock we had
a splendid representation of "Bonaparte crossing the Alps," minus the
Alps, and nothing but active marching kept the boys from feeling the
extra keenness of old Winter's breath. Still, the boys trudged merrily
on, feeling confident the present march is not to be fruitless in its
results, as preceding ones have been. This campaign now presents an
active appearance, every thing indicating a head to conceive and the
will to do.

At three o'clock to-day we passed through the neat-looking town of
Franklin. It looks very new, most of the houses being substantial
bricks. Here we met General Fry, the man who _slewed_ Zollicoffer. The
General is of plain, unostentatious appearance, a keen eye, lips
compressed, the whole countenance denoting determination and quickness